


Early Mornings and Late Nights

by ShitpostingfromtheBarricade



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don't copy to another site, Enjolras POV, Get-Together Fic, M/M, cute and stupid, just an idea i've had stuck in my head for a while
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 11:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18475696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade/pseuds/ShitpostingfromtheBarricade
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire have a small patch of overlap in their schedules, and for the first time in years they begin actually talking.Warnings:reference to past alcohol abuse





	Early Mornings and Late Nights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnaBolena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/gifts).



> For [AnnaBolena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/PieceOfCait): it's not canon-era (my forays into this realm have been a bust), nor does it contain copious references to Greek mythology (I just don't have that kind of confidence in my background), but it does have proper formatting and a healthy relationship and is something I created (and therefore is something precious to be cherished by all), so I hope you like it.
> 
> Lots of love and thanks always to [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait), especially for supporting me through creative decisions that make her want to tear her hair out. (Even if she then goes on to bully me and compare me to Pontmercy using my own memes.)

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Enjolras looks up from his coffee to see Grantaire standing in the doorway with a very judgmental look on his face.

“It’s coffee time.”

“It’s _breakfast_ time,” Grantaire counters. 

Enjolras looks at the clock. “It’s 4 in the morning.”

“Exactly.” Grantaire gives him an odd look as he get into the cabinet right beside Enjolras’s head; the door brushes some flyaways as it opens. “So what are you doing up?”

“Work.”

Grantaire huffs as he retrieves a box of cereal. “Of course you are. Figures that Apollo’s work wouldn’t end with daylight.”

Enjolras’s mouth tightens. “Would you like me to leave?”

“No, no, by all means, stay. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of your ‘work.’”

Enjolras stares at the man. It’s been years since they and the rest of the amis moved in together, but once Enjolras had taken his new job and Grantaire started doing—well, whatever it is that Grantaire does—their paths crossed blessedly less frequently, to the point where their only interactions these days are meetings; even at those, Grantaire hasn’t truly gone on a ramble of epic proportions since Enjolras’s undergrad days. 

“Can I help you?” Grantaire asks through a mouthful of cereal.

Enjolras raises his eyebrows and shrugs, sipping his coffee and eyeing the clock. It’s just after 4 now, a bit later than his normal caffeine break. Still, surely he would have noticed if Grantaire has been up this early for work before. 

He brings his drink to his mouth in thought only to be met with the unpleasant surprise of an empty mug. He feels more alert than when he came down, yes, but most mornings he would have another cup before returning upstairs. Today, though, under Grantaire’s watchful eye, he feels reluctant to stay any longer than is absolutely necessary.

He nods toward the man from the doorway of the kitchen. “Have a nice day, then.”

His response appears to come in the form of the man slurping the milk from his bowl loudly, and Enjolras turns toward the stairs.

“Sweet dreams,” Grantaire calls after him.

 

—-

 

The lighting in the kitchen is more conducive to thinking and staying awake. And besides, the hot water heater is right there, he doesn’t need to interrupt his work for a pick-me-up with a constant stream of instant coffee basically already there for him. 

Combeferre had called his plan ‘petty,’ but Courfeyrac approved. Two-thirds majority, overruled.

Still, it feels like Combeferre’s victory when Grantaire enters the room at exactly 4, raising his eyebrows at Enjolras’s workstation and turning immediately to the cereal cabinet once more. 

“Adopting the kitchen as your personal office space now?”

Enjolras doesn’t really have a defense to the accusation, so he studiously ignores it.

Several uncomfortable minutes pass before Grantaire speaks up again. “Reading glasses. Those are new.”

He’s needed them since he was ten, but he’s been wearing contacts since he was seventeen. It’s odd to realize that he lives with people who still don’t know. “Not really.” 

There’s a beat of silence before the man responds. “Well okay then.” He doesn’t sound impressed, and Enjolras can hardly blame him.

Not that the man’s reaction is any sort of break from the status quo: Enjolras has long since accepted that nothing about his vision, hopes, or aspirations holds any interest to Grantaire. There was a time when he, eager to recruit and convert, had been disappointed that such a clever, capable person would be so pointedly disinterested in their cause, but there comes a point in every activist’s life when they must realize that some people are satisfied with complacency.

Grantaire clears his throat, breaking the blissful and uncomfortable silence that had preceded it. “Lovely as this has been, I have literally anything else to be doing.” He pulls a black backpack that Enjolras hadn’t noticed before over his shoulder and exits the kitchen’s backdoor.

“Bye,” Enjolras responds weakly once the door has shut. 

 

—-

 

“So what did you think of last night’s meeting?” 

It’s a weak excuse for conversation, borderline creepy at 4 on a Wednesday morning, but apparently both of them are awake.

It doesn’t stop Grantaire from shooting Enjolras a look that feels equivalent to if Enjolras were to have accused Grantaire of personally ordering the hit on Archduke Franz Ferdinand. “So this is what you wanna do today? You wanna fight?”

Enjolras closes his eyes as he sighs, turning to where the man is retrieving something from the freezer. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“So you want me to lie,” Grantaire concludes, pulling an odd implement with a lever out of nowhere and pouring coffee beans into it.

“I just think we can discuss this without it turning into some big debate that both of us walk away from angry.”

Grantaire doesn’t seem to agree, slamming the freezer door and turning back to his odd contraption. “Right, so we can just ‘discuss’ your intentions to stage your,” he gives the handle of his device a crack, “whatever the hell,” another crack, “on disability rights, without our meeting place even being up to code?”

The man is now grinding away without abandon at his coffee beans, but Enjolras isn’t willing to let go of the topic just yet. “And what exactly does that mean?”

Grantaire gives his device a final crank before dumping the crushed beans into a coffee filter he must have retrieved earlier. “You realize that Joly climbs the steps every week, right?”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “I didn’t.”

“Elevator’s still out of repair. Has been for nearly two years,” Grantaire elaborates as he pours a vessel of water over the filter. “Seems awfully hypocritical to advocate for the rights of people with disabilities when one of our own still struggles just to get to meetings, don’t ya think?”

There’s the sound of steamed water streaming through beans, and Enjolras’s expression remains resolutely fixed. “It would seem so,” he assents.

“Let’s maybe start there then, yeah?” Grantaire turns back to the cereals cabinet, grabbing the same chocolate cereal he’d had the day before and retrieving a bowl before turning to the fridge. 

Enjolras resolutely doesn’t watch in favor of turning the new information over in his head. Is it true? It seems probable: Joly is among the least likely of them to complain about anything, and by the time that the man enters the room he’s nearly alway ready to collapse into the nearest chair. No one else has ever mentioned the elevator before, but it occurs to Enjolras now that the others might not feel particularly inclined to turn his attention from their current cause.

It is important, though, and Grantaire is right: how can they propagate for the rights of others when they hardly assure them for their own?

He waits until Grantaire has left (probably cowardly, but the only way he can really talk his way into it) to open his email.

 **To:** TheHuchiestBae@TheMusain.com  
**From:** J.Enjolras@gmail.com

 **Subject:** Disability Access

Madame Hucheloup:

It has come to my attention that 

 

—-

 

“So we’re really doing this, huh?” Grantaire asks when he arrives at the kitchen. It’s 3:58, but Enjolras decides that it’s not worth mentioning. “Sleep that poorly?”

“Haven’t slept at all,” Enjolras corrects. 

Grantaire makes a face at him, retrieving his beans. “Contrary to popular opinion, that isn’t actually healthy. Or even normal. Consider, like, _not_.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “My alarm went off at 4, it’s barely been twelve hours.” A lie in the most technical of senses: he got out of bed at 5:30.

“Like, 4 in the afternoon?”

Enjolras nods.

“My dude, you need to get your life in check,” the man responds as he grinds the beans.

“Oh? And what, conform to the rise of the sun?”

“Yes?” Grantaire responds incredulously. “At the very least, the rise of everyone else.”

Enjolras considers this a moment. It’s an argument he’s made against himself before, but it’s hardly ever seemed relevant enough to change his habits. “The work gets done whether it’s dark or light out.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Okay, whatever.”

“In any case, you’re hardly better than me: who wakes up while it’s still dark?”

“People whose jobs have fixed hours?”

Enjolras hesitates before asking, curiosity beating out his reluctance to reveal how little he knows about the man. “Where do you work?”

The other man falters a beat in his cereal retrieval before responding. “Uh. Bakery.”

A bakery. Enjolras nods thoughtfully. “It suits you.”

Grantaire scoffs. “Oh yeah, minimum wage and unskilled labor are a good look on me.”

Enjolras throws his hands up. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Being intentionally difficult and twisting my words. You know I didn’t mean it as an insult.”

“Being intentionally difficult is the first skill on my resume.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Enjolras huffs. After a brief moment of debate he turns back to his work. He hears the sink running on the other side of the breakfast bar and the clinking sound of the dishwasher being unloaded.

Enjolras is certain that the rest of the morning is going to be spent in silence until Grantaire opens the door.

“I’m, uh.” There’s a long pause. “Sorry for being a bit of a shithead.” It sounds like Grantaire is going to say something else, but the sound of the door shutting seems to be the only sort of resolution that the conversation will receive this morning.

 

—-

 

Grantaire is barely through the kitchen doorway when Enjolras begins speaking.

“So what would you like to do, if you don’t like the bakery?”

Grantaire looks a little taken aback, but after eyeing Enjolras warily on his route to the freezer he answers. “Forensic conservator.”

“What...is that?”

“Well, the work looks a little different from place to place, but mostly verifying that art pieces aren’t forgeries and preserving them and stuff.”

“That…” Enjolras blinks. “That sounds really interesting.”

Grantaire shrugs as he pours his cereal, but Enjolras thinks he sees a small smile forming on the man’s mouth. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Enjolras thinks, brows pulling together as he purses his lips. “Sounds like it would take a lot of schooling. What do you even study for that?”

“You’ll usually take some art history and chemistry for your undergrad, and then for your master’s degree you need to find a program that specializes in that sort of thing—conservation, maybe forensics. 

“And I take it you’ve done that?”

Grantaire nods as he chews his cereal. “To go back to your first question, though: I like the bakery just fine. The people are good, the work is fun. But—and I’m gonna sound like an elitist prick saying this—when you’ve got two master’s degrees, it feels a bit menial.” 

“Menial,” Enjolras repeats. He rests his chin on his hand. “Have you applied for any positions around here?”

Grantaire huffs. “Obviously. A couple of places contract work out to me, and a bunch of them have my resume on retainer for if a spot in-house opens up, but until then it’s just a waiting game.”

Enjolras wants to say something reassuring, but he’s never been in such a position in his life, and he knows his words will fall hollow on Grantaire’s ears. “Well, I wish you the best of luck,” he offers instead.

The man looks up, face softening into a smile after a hesitant beat. “Thanks.”

The quiet that follows is a more comfortable one, punctuated only when Grantaire is pulling on his backpack.

“Have a nice day,” Enjolras offers without looking up from his screen.

He feels Grantaire’s hand weigh on his shoulder briefly as the man passes him. “Sweet dreams.”

 

—-

 

“So why _are_ you up?”

Enjolras looks over to where Grantaire sits atop the kitchen counter sipping his coffee. “I’m working.”

“Well yeah, but you teach evening classes, don’t you? And right now’s summer term, so I’d imagine most of your classwork is online, unless you’re one of those monsters who makes their students commute to the university for face-to-face sessions or whatever.”

Enjolras hesitates. “I don’t.”

Grantaire seems to know anyway, smirking amusedly. “That’s bad for the environment, y’know.”

“Please. It’s video calls, they’ll live.”

“Will they though?” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes, smiling. “It’s once a week, I think they can manage.”

“So why the schedule?”

Enjolras’s eyes flicker briefly toward the clock. “Well, when I first started as an adjunct professor they had me teaching mostly gen ed courses, and all of the time slots were early in the day.”

“The bitch time slots.”

Enjolras shrugs. “More or less. I quickly discovered that it was much easier to go to them if I had already been awake for several hours before, so I started doing that instead. Did that for a couple of terms, and then there was an opening for teaching evening classes instead, so I pushed back my wake-up time a little further, dropped the daytime classes, and started teaching pretty exclusively in the evening.”

Grantaire has been nodding impassively since Enjolras began speaking, but at this he pauses. “Isn’t that a cut to your hours?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras concedes, “but having all of us living here and the greenhouse keeps things pretty inexpensive, and I like having the time to prepare materials for the meetings.”

“Ever think you’d go back?”

“My department chair actually wants me to,” Enjolras admits sheepishly. “She’s recommended me for a full-time teaching position and seems to think I’ll make tenure in no time, but I have other things to do and absolutely no interest in playing politics with a bunch of ‘professionals’ who wave seniority in your face like some kind of credential.”

“An extremely valid sentiment.” 

Enjolras nods, returning to his work and sipping at his coffee. “Not to mention that the president of the university is a _dick_.”

This startles a laugh out of Grantaire, and Enjolras revels in the achievement. “ _Asshole_ , coffee through the nose is no joke!”

Enjolras shrugs, making no effort to hide his grin. 

“Ah _fuck_ , that hurts like a _bitch_ ,” Grantaire continues. He takes a minute to clean himself up, muttering all the while, before he addresses Enjolras again. “So is this the Enjolras dream job, then? Little baby Enjolras told anyone who would listen how much he wanted to be an part-time professor at a big-shot university?”

Enjolras considers the question. “I actually wanted to be a performer. Bring musicals to the masses.”

“A noble cause indeed,” Grantaire responds. “So when did that dream die?”

“With the realization that I have two left feet and a singing voice that makes children cry.”

“And so reality crushes yet another star on the rise. Break your neck just to live, I tell ya. Glad to see that your backup job of Social Justice Warrior and Voice of the Masses has worked out, though.”

Enjolras glances over at the man. It sounds like something he might have said years ago in a meeting, mocking and drunk, but here and now Grantaire’s voice is soft and gentle, and his expression bears none of the bite that it once did.

And then it’s 4:30, and like clockwork Grantaire is leaving and Enjolras is staying, two ships passing in the night. 

“Have a nice day.”

“Sweet dreams.”

 

—-

 

“You just missed Bahorel and Bossuet,” Enjolras informs Grantaire when the man enters the kitchen.

“Not Courf?”

“Courfeyrac seems to have found other things to do with his night.”

“ _Sexy_ things?” Grantaire asks teasingly.

“Presumably,” Enjolras responds, not looking up from his typing. 

“Good for him, prospects were looking bleak when I left last night.”

Enjolras waits for Grantaire to finish putting his coffee on before he speaks again. “We were talking about undergrad,” he lies. The question has been on his mind since yesterday.

“Oof, why?”

“Just some old uni stories.”

“All lies and speculation, I’m sure.”

“Of course. It got me thinking, though...whatever happened then?”

“Hmm?” The clatter of cereal being poured into the bowl fills the air. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He had planned how to say this, but in the moment all of the phrases escape him. He should have typed them up when he had the chance. “You have two master’s degrees and a job and do consulting work on the side. You left a night out early to come home and sleep. The R I know from undergrad would have skipped the shift to stay out, or even just gone in still-drunk. You failed classes every term, and...you weren’t even studying art or chemistry, were you? What did you study”

“Business.” Grantaire’s expression is flat.

“I know I’m saying this all wrong, I don’t mean to insult you, but...what happened? What changed?”

Grantaire is quiet for a moment before pushing himself off of the counter and moving to his coffee press. He fills a mug, and Enjolras worries that he’s broken their tentative peace.

“Do you remember when I went off to Brasil?”

“Vaguely.”

“It was for my father’s funeral.”

Enjolras flinches. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t be, he was a bastard. Anyway, his death really made me take a hard look at what I was doing with my life and why, and just generally about who I was as a person. I ended up dropping all of my classes for the term and spending a year there reconnecting with my family and just kind of figuring out who I am again. Heard a lot of peoples’ stories, put down the bottle, made some decisions about how I was gonna go forth.

“All of you were graduated by the time I got back—sorry for missing the ceremony, by the way.”

“No offense taken.”

“And I already had most of my gen eds knocked out, so I just…” he shrugs, “knuckled down. Made a plan and stuck with it. Éponine was great through it, and so was Jehan and Joly and, well, everyone really.”

The unspoken _except you_ hangs in the air, and Enjolras swallows. “That takes some serious conviction.”

“Yeah, well,” Grantaire shrugs, “Brasilian culture’s pretty relaxed, so by the time I got back I was ready for some structure in my life anyway.” 

“I’m glad you came back to us,” Enjolras smiles. “And I’m proud of you for making that kind of choice: what you did is no small thing, and it takes a big person to look into themselves and decide to make a change.”

Grantaire’s eyes are wide with surprise, and he blinks slowly several times before looking down and smiling. “Thanks. I’m glad I’m back too.”

The minutes pass too quickly after that, and before Enjolras even realizes the time a hand is resting on his shoulder once more.

“Have a nice day.”

“Sweet dreams.”

 

—-

 

Enjolras has horribly mistimed his coffee break.

“The instant crystals are _yours??_ ” 

“People are trying to sleep!” Enjolras hisses.

“Yeah, and you aren’t among them. What is this?”

Enjolras sighs. “It really seems like you already know the answer to this question.”

“Yeah, but I was hoping I was wrong.” He picks up the coffee crystals from the counter where Enjolras had put them, examining the container incredulously. “If you’re environmentally conscious enough to be vegan, shouldn’t you also be conscious enough to take issue with putting this crap in your body? How is there enough demand in the world for a company to bother making _vegan instant coffee??_ ”

Enjolras snatches the container back from Grantaire. “Allow me my one guilty pleasure.”

“Have you ever actually had coffee?”

“Yes, and it’s disgusting. Leave me and my instant coffee in peace.” Enjolras tucks the container back into the cabinet, sure that his expression lies somewhere between a grimace and a grin. He takes a sip from mug: significantly better than his uni days of drinking whatever Combeferre had left in the pot.

“Whatever Combeferre left in the pot when it was just you two living together doesn’t count.” Grantaire turns to collect his beans, grinder, and press. “Enjolras, before the morning is done, you will have tried a proper cup of coffee.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Enjolras insists.

“I do, actually,” Grantaire responds seriously. “I really, really do.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and smiles as he pushes off from the counter and moves back to his laptop. “Suit yourself.”

Several minutes later, a lumpy mug is placed beside Enjolras. He looks inside. “This is black.”

“Yeah, if you hate it I’m just going to repossess it for myself, so I figured there was no point in destroying it with other crap.”

“I’m going to hate it without fixings.” He can’t even drink tea without milk and sugar.

“Just give it a try, see if you like it.”

Enjolras huffs, reluctantly wrapping a hand around the mug and bringing it to his mouth. He blows on it before sipping, bracing himself for the worst. 

In the small sip he takes, he tastes blessedly little besides a vaguely nutty flavor. Can it be that fresh beans and a proper press really do make a difference? It seems unlikely, but he braves another larger sip to see.

It was too good to be true: as soon as the concentrated flavor hits his tongue he spits it back into the mug, scraping his tongue with his teeth and smacking his lips to get the taste off. He freezes, realizing that he has just spit into the coffee that Grantaire had intended to drink, and looks up at the man in horror.

Fortunately, Grantaire seems to have found humor in the situation, doubled over in laughter and supporting himself on the breakfast bar beside the table. 

Enjolras’s expression sours, flavor still stewing on his tongue. “I told you, I don’t like black coffee.”

“You did, you did, and I let my hubris get the best of me,” the man responds between gasps. 

Grantaire’s laugh is ridiculous. It’s brash and loud and punctuated with harsh wheezes, and Enjolras somehow finds it endlessly endearing. “I’m not rinsing that out.”

“I would never dream of asking you to,” Grantaire responds, finally composed enough to walk the mug to the sink. He dumps it out without ceremony, quickly scrubbing it and running a dish towel over the inside before turning back to his press and pouring himself another glass. “Mark my words, though: I will find a way to deliver real and proper coffee to you that you’ll actually enjoy.”

“We’ll see.”

“ _You’ll_ see,” Grantaire corrects. “I’m already enlightened.”

(“Have a nice day.”

“Sweet dreams.”)

 

—-

 

“You don’t work every day, do you?” Enjolras asks Tuesday morning.

Grantaire looks up at him over his press. “I told you I like the bakery, right? Of course I don’t work every day.”

Enjolras frowns over his (instant) coffee. “But you’re up at 4 every day.”

“Well yeah, I fuck up my sleep schedule if I don’t.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrow in confusion. “But...you leave at 4:30?”

“I still have things I wanna do,” Grantaire shrugs. 

“Things?”

“Yes. You know, for fun? That bring me joy? I know that, for you, those things tend to involve working yourself into an early grave, but most people to have a separate life outside of what they majored in.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Do what you love…”

“Yeah, yeah, and that’s all well and good, but I still like doing other things. Like, even when I do hear back from a place, forensic conservation isn’t going to be all I do.”

Enjolras purses his lips and raises a doubtful eyebrow. “So...what is there to do between the hours of 4:30 and the start of your shift?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Stuff.”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff,” Grantaire repeats with a firm nod. “Things, too.” 

“Of course.”

Enjolras turns back to his laptop. He tries to push down the disappointment that rises in his chest at the thought of Grantaire being so eager to do other things ( _things without him,_ his mind treacherously provides) that he rushes out at 4:30 every morning. Does he have some kind of appointment? Is he running errands? Perhaps trying to hurry to a shop’s 5 o’clock opening?

Is he meeting with someone else?

He doesn’t know why the last one clenches his heart like a vice; he’s never been a particularly jealous friend before now. Even when Combeferre began spending more and more time with his other doctor friends, they’d agreed to at least one evening a week together, and that has been more than enough. Enjolras has Grantaire every morning for half an hour of interrupted breakfasting, this should be more than satisfactory.

“Something up?” Grantaire asks.

“Hmm?” Enjolras looks up. The other man is at the sink rinsing his dishes. “No, why do you ask?”

“You have an annoyed scrunch to your face.”

“Ah.” He scrambles for an excuse. “This student has no grasp on the premises of fascism, socialism, or communism,” he lies, gesturing to a news article that Grantaire hopefully cannot see.

“That would do it,” chuckles Grantaire. “How do you reckon I’d do in your class? Assuming I don’t do readings, do submit papers that tear your arguments to shreds—”

“ _Attempt_ to tear my arguments to shreds,” Enjolras corrects.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Blondie—and turn in every single assignment late.”

Enjolras leans back, thinking of his final grade composition with serious consideration. “If you submitted the final paper on time? High C. Possibly even mid-ranged B if you were to use the correct citation style.”

“APA or death,” Grantaire declares. “But let’s throw a dead grandma into the mix.”

“You’d still fail, I don’t accept major assignments late.”

“ _Two_ dead grandmas.”

“No.”

“ _Five dead grandmas_ , Enjolras. They were on their way back from their biannual nude beach excursion. Tragic car crash, a devastating blow to the entire family.”

Enjolras lets out a surprised laugh. “Even if your grandparents on both sides were hypothetically in homosexual relationships—and you mention your father’s parents often enough that I know they aren’t—that would still max you out at four grandmothers.”

Grantaire gasps dramatically, making his way over to the kitchen table. “ _Enjolras_ , how _dare_ you assume that my mother’s parents were bound to the constraints of monogamous coupling!! I’ll have you know that my other three grandmas were in the car behind them, meaning that we are up to a whopping _eight grandmothers_ , dead, all due to your senseless heteronormative expectations.” The man sniffles twice, leaning against the side of the table at which Enjolras now works. “So. Two days late, with a program from their mass funeral.”

“No.”

“Enjolras,” the man says seriously, sitting himself on the table between Enjolras and his computer and placing a hand on the latter’s shoulder, “you don’t understand: I _really_ need to pass this class. I’m prepared to do _whatever it takes_.” He winks lasciviously and slowly spreads his jean-clad legs to either side of Enjolras’s.

Enjolras is no stranger to over-the-top come-ons—they’re Courfeyrac’s preferred method of greeting in public spaces—and he knows that this is just a continuation of their game. So he’s puzzled as to why his breath is suddenly coming short and he feels frozen in his seat. He can’t just let Grantaire think he’s won, though. 

He stands, forcing himself into Grantaire’s space and keeping intentional eye-contact. “Anything?”

Grantaire releases a nervous giggle, and Enjolras leans in closer, careful not to touch the man and willing his mind off of the warmth radiating between them.

He speaks softly, breathing over a spot on Grantaire’s neck just below the man’s ear. “Would you...submit your paper on time?”

Enjolras pulls back, standing upright and examining the effects of his words. Grantaire’s face is frozen in confused shock before he barks a laugh. “Not a chance, Teach,” the man says, pushing himself off the table ledge and patting Enjolras’s cheek twice before turning away to collect his things. Enjolras’s eyes catch on the clock. 4:32. He knows he should feel guilty for making Grantaire late, but instead he feels intense satisfaction. “Congrats to you for sticking to your morals or whatever, though. We need someone upholding those traditionalist values.”

Enjolras nods without thinking before the man’s words settle in. “Wait, is this over the—I do _not_ support heteronormative values!”

“Yeah? Tell that to my eight dead grandmas. Their blood is dark and fresh on your hands, Professor.”

Enjolras releases an exasperated sigh as Grantaire passes him to the doors. “Have a nice day.”

“Sweet dreams, Teach.”

 

—-

 

“So.”

“So,” Enjolras responds. 

Grantaire has been down for ten minutes already, but final papers were submitted Sunday night, and last night’s meeting has Enjolras behind schedule on grading them.

“The elevator was working last night.”

“Good to hear,” Enjolras responds without looking up. 

It’s silent for a beat. “Joly was happy about it.”

“It’s just allowing him the same mobility everyone else is able to take for granted.” 

He hears a frustrated huff and finally looks up to where Grantaire stands behind the breakfast bar. “What I’m trying to say is, _thank you_. I know I didn’t exactly convey the information politely or give you much of a chance to defend yourself, and uh. Well, you’re a good friend. A good _person_.”

“It was just righting something that should never have been an issue in the first place.”

Grantaire shakes his head, snorting in disbelief. “And he’s humble!” he announces to an invisible audience. He turns back to Enjolras before speaking again. “Seriously, though, that was. It was pretty cool of you.”

Enjolras allows himself a small smile. “Well, it’s ‘pretty cool of you’ to think so. I’m glad you brought it to my attention.”

Grantaire looks down and grins. Enjolras thinks he might be pinkening, and really, it’s a good look on him. “You know, though,” Grantaire starts, looking up at Enjolras through long, dark lashes, “Joly might still beat you to death in your sleep with his cane.”

Enjolras’s eyebrows raise in amusement as he sits back in his chair. “Oh? Why’s that?”

The other man shrugs. “No broken elevator, no excuse to recruit Bahorel to piggyback him up the stairs.”

Enjolras nods seriously. “A valid grievance, I’ll allow it.” That makes Grantaire laugh again, and Enjolras really doesn’t have time for the introspection that Grantaire’s new effect on him will require. He needs to make it through this week, and after that he can meditate on his _feelings_ , or at least talk this out with Courfeyrac.

“So anyway,” Grantaire says, rubbing at his chin, “I know yesterday you were asking about what I’m always running off to do, and like. If you have work to do, that’s fine, and I get it, but if you’re interested, would you want to...accompany me?”

The ‘yes’ is almost out of his mouth before Enjolras can catch it. He eyes his laptop guiltily. The grades are due in Sunday, and he still hasn’t quite caught up to where he wants to be. On the other hand, he has been making extremely steady progress, and if he turns Grantaire down today he isn’t sure that there will be another chance.

“Today’s not really good for me,” he answers, regretting his words immediately on seeing Grantaire’s expression fall.

“Ah. Yeah, that’s cool. Maybe some other time, then.”

Enjolras scrambles at the open invitation. “Monday? Would Monday be okay?”

Grantaire startles slightly, and Enjolras worries that maybe he’s coming off as overeager. “Yeah,” the man responds, a smile breaking over his face. “Monday is perfect.”

“Great. I just,” he nods to the laptop. “Lots of work this week.

“Yeah, no, seriously, I get it,” Grantaire grins. “Um Monday, then.”

“Monday,” Enjolras confirms. He turns back to his computer. His stomach is buzzing, and it takes several minutes before he can finally lose himself in grading again.

He’s reminded of the time by a hand brushing over his shoulder. 

“Have a nice day,” Enjolras smiles.

“Sweet dreams,” Grantaire returns.

 

—-

 

The lumpy mug has returned. Enjolras lifts his eyes to where Grantaire stands leaning back against the breakfast bar with his arms crossed and a smug smile. The question goes unspoken: _What is this?_

“It’s not black.”

Enjolras examines the contents. So it’s not. “And you have no intentions with this one if it’s not up to my standards?”

Grantaire snorts, rolling his eyes. “You drink instant coffee, define ‘standards.’”

 _Touché_. “What’s in it?”

“Only the finest cashew products, hand-tended to by virgin milkmaids and pressed through organic, fairtrade cheesecloth.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows at the man.

“Unsweetened cashew milk, honey, and a touch of vanilla.”

“Honey isn’t vegan.”

Grantaire fixes him with a dead stare. “Are you really withdrawing your support from local beekeepers and some of our most valuable natural pollinators based on the nuances of what can be defined as an animal product?”

Enjolras sighs, letting an exasperated smile come forth. “Fine.”

“No, no, it’s fine, I’ll just take that, make you a fresh cuppa with some other less sustainable non-animal product—” the man says, reaching for the mug with a grin.

Enjolras bats away Grantaire’s hands and draws the coffee in. This close to having to try non-instant again, his mouth instinctively puckers. He sizes the beverage up, taking a deep breath before sipping a mouthful.

It’s not scalding as he’d expected; instead, it nearly borders on merely warm, possibly the product of how much cashew milk has been added—and there certainly has been a lot. The creaminess of the coffee runs over his tongue, just enough honey added to give it a pleasant sweetness without overwhelming the flavor of the coffee itself. Alone, the coffee had been overwhelming and bitter, but in its more diluted form Enjolras can now taste nuttier undertones and something slightly richer.

“It’s good,” he admits once he gulps his first sip. “It’s really good.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I quite caught that: who was right?”

“I told you not to bother, not that it couldn’t be done.”

Grantaire ignores this, sitting down in a chair he’s pulled up to Enjolras and leaning over the man, a hand cupped to his ear. “I missed that, say again?”

“Honestly R, is this entirely necessary?”

“Have you ever known me to be anything but petty?”

Yes: intelligent, thoughtful, fiercely loyal, kind. But ‘petty’ is certainly among them. He sighs, smiling. “You were right, and I apologize for ever having doubted you.” 

“Ah, okay, that’s what I’d thought you said. Hearing, y’know?” the man winks.

Enjolras shoves the other man lightly, and Grantaire stands with a goofy grin, returning to the kitchen. 

“And thank you,” Enjolras calls after him. He takes another drink, and it’s somehow better than the last.

Grantaire nods, reaching for his cereal and pouring a bowl. “Honestly, it was moral obligation at that point. Doing my small part for the betterment of mankind.” 

Enjolras rolls his eyes but doesn’t respond, nearly draining the rest of the mug in a single draw. He doesn’t realize it until he’s turned back to his grading and is elbows-deep into his second essay since Grantaire appeared. 

“Um, say, R, I don’t suppose—”

“On it,” Grantaire answers, already moving back around the breakfast bar and grabbing Enjolras’s mug.

Enjolras gives him a guilty smile before turning back to his work, and he hears Grantaire’s rich chuckle in response.

His request must have been cutting it extremely close, because the mug is replaced in unison with a hand brushing over his shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye Enjolras catches a flash of Grantaire’s black backpack.

“Have a nice day!” Enjolras calls. Something about it almost feels wrong with how little attention he truly paid the man, but the answer comes nevertheless.

“Sweet dreams.”

 

—-

 

Grantaire doesn’t say anything when he comes down Friday morning, but something in Enjolras’s mind flickers with the awareness of his presence. It’s been happening more of late, but today especially the man seems to carry a nervous energy. Enjolras managed to get ahead of his work again last night, a massive relief in the face of their rally tomorrow. Still, ideally he’ll be done with the essays tonight so he can go into tomorrow’s event with no grading hanging over his head and fully able to concentrate on the cause at hand.

He can’t help but glance over at Grantaire, though, as the man paces in the kitchen and fiddles with the handle of his coffee grinder. “Is everything all right?” 

“Yeah. Just.” Deep breath. “Yeah.”

Enjolras gives him a worried look but turns back to his work. If Grantaire wants to talk about it, he will. His concerns feel validated when Grantaire sits down in the seat adjacent to his, depositing two mugs and a cereal bowl.

“Thank you.” Enjolras reaches for the mug he’d drank from yesterday, peering in to make sure it’s his. 

(It’s not, and he promptly switches mugs.)

“So uh. I have some news.”

Enjolras keeps his face carefully blank as he stirs his coffee. “Good news?”

Grantaire huffs, eyes wide in grinning disbelief. “Yeah, it’s uh. Extremely good.”

Enjolras takes a sip of his coffee before nodding to proceed.

“I don’t know if you remember me telling you about my contract work with the museums? How some of them kept my resume on retainer?”

The pieces come together, and Enjolras turns his whole body toward Grantaire in shocked amazement. “Grantaire, that’s—that’s fantastic! I can’t—what did everyone else say?”

At this, Grantaire’s face turns down. “I actually just got the call last night, and.” He shrugs. “Bossuet was asleep, and Joly’s working overnight, and Jehan’s at that writing workshop, and Ép—”

“I’m the first person you’ve told,” Enjolras surmises, words heavy with realization. He supposes he should feel sad that Grantaire’s closest friends were all unavailable, but in truth he feels excited and not a little smug. Which. He’s happy for his friend, of course he’s going to feel a degree of pride in him and his accomplishments.

Grantaire rubs his neck, already ruddy with color. “I mean, I called my sister, but uh...yeah.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says firmly, waiting for the man to look back up at him. He does, face red and eyes contrasting starkly against the color. “This is amazing. And I feel honored to have been one of the first people you told. Thank you so much.”

Grantaire’s smile widens, and it seems distinctly possible that he has gone a shade darker as he tucks a lock of hair behind an ear.

“When do you start?”

“Basically right away,” Grantaire grins, still seeming a bit dazed. “I’ll have today and the weekend to make all of my arrangements with the bakery and, _Gods_ , owning more than two button-downs, and then Monday’s my first day.”

“Wow,” Enjolras breathes. “That’s a big change.”

“It is,” Grantaire agrees, “but I’m ready for it. I’ve wanted this for a long time, and I finally have it.”

Enjolras’s face is starting to hurt from all of the smiling he’s doing, and before he can think it through he’s stepping around the table to pull Grantaire out of his chair and into a hug. 

Like this, Enjolras can smell whatever body wash he’d used that morning and the lingering smell of shaving cream. The navy sweatshirt that the man usually wears is at least a size too big, but more than that, something about hugging Grantaire just feels like taking a full breath for the first time in a long time, like a part of his lungs that had previously been rubber banded off has just been freed of its restraints. A distant part of his mind tells him that the hug is stretching a little long, but he doesn’t feel Grantaire pulling away yet either. 

There’s a quiet beeping sound, and Grantaire pulls away suddenly with a swear.

“Something wrong?”

“I’m supposed to be leaving earlier today,” the man explains, pressing a button on his watch and downing his coffee in three quick gulps that must scald his throat. Grantaire glances down again at the watch. “Um. Any chance that I can leave the dishes to you? I’ll owe you one, I promise.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Enjolras assures him. “Eat your cereal and get going.”

Grantaire thanks him as profusely as he seems capable of in between messy bites, running the dishes to the sink before heading out the door.

“Have a nice day!” Enjolras rushes out.

“And sweet dreams to you,” Grantaire smile through the doorway before shutting it.

Enjolras turns back to his laptop, still dizzy from the news and the hug and _feelings_ , and needs to entirely restart his current paper to be able to make any sense of it.

 

—-

 

Five papers. Five more papers, and then he’s done with grading and the term and everything else that comes with it, and he can focus on today’s rally, and most importantly _he never has to read another paper from any of these students ever again._

(until they inevitably appear in his courses next term, but right now is not the time for long-term thinking— _five more papers_ )

“Enj?” 

Enjolras nearly gives himself whiplash looking up at Grantaire, coffee already beside him. “Is this for me?”

“Yeah, but…” The man’s fingers remain over the rim of the glass. “Are you sleeping between now and the rally?”

“If I finish these papers with enough time to upload grades and sleep, then yes.”

“Which is to say, ‘possibly no.’”

Enjolras cannot deny that this might indeed be a potential interpretation of the words. “But also ‘possibly yes’?”

Grantaire fixes Enjolras with the flattest of stares before bringing the cup beneath his fingertips up to his mouth and throwing it back in one go.

Enjolras gives the man a look of shock and disbelief. “R, what the—”

“You can do what you want with your body and safety,” Grantaire acquiesces, “but I don’t have to play party to it. You and I both know how quickly these things can turn south, and you need to be functioning at full capacity to handle that.”

It takes a moment for Grantaire’s words to properly settle over him. Enjolras looks between the man and the computer, biting his lip.

“It’s 4:08. If you go to bed now, you can get in nearly four hours of sleep and still have another hour for whatever regiment is takes to steal Apollo’s look.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes at the man before his facade breaks and reveals a smile. “Fine.” He shuts the laptop, standing to stretch his arms over his head, a yawn fighting its way out. He sees Grantaire staring.

“Something wrong?”

“You just—no, nothing. Nothing’s wrong,” Grantaire blushes before making a face. “Gods, your coffee is disgusting.”

“You could have left me to my crystals in peace,” Enjolras volunteers, picking up his laptop.

“Not a chance,” the other man grins.

Enjolras pads over to the doorway of the kitchen, stopping suddenly to spin around and lean into it. “Hey, R.”

“Yeah?” The man looks up at him expectantly, and Enjolras feels his breath catch.

“Are you—You’ll be at the rally this afternoon, right?”

Grantaire’s expression softens. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Now get off to bed.”

“Have a nice day.”

“Sweet dreams.”

 

—-

 

Enjolras has only barely sent the others off to bed by the time Grantaire appears in the doorway. It’s not that he’s embarrassed of this time with Grantaire, rather that...well, it’s _their_ time. Everyone else gets Grantaire the other twenty-three and a half hours of the day, but these thirty minutes are _his_.

“Fun night, huh?” the man grins as he heads to the freezer. 

“You ran into them?”

“If we’re speaking in its most literal form, they ran into me. But yes, I saw them on my way here.”

Enjolras nods tiredly.

“Coffee?”

“Maybe not today,” Enjolras declines. His grading is done, Courfeyrac had convinced him to do try karaoke for the first time in years (with predictably disastrous results), and his whole body feels the exhaustion of everything he’s done over the past twenty hours.

“Yeah, I don’t imagine you’re too interested in being up any later,” the man agrees. “Speaking of, why are you up?”

Enjolras’s mind races for an excuse as the man steps into the kitchen. He can’t quite say why, but confessing that he’s here to spend time with Grantaire doesn’t seem as innocuous anymore as it might have before. “Hungry.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows raise. “I once heard you say that you haven’t been hungry since ‘92.”

Enjolras shrugs. “First time for everything. And besides, Ferre ended up debunking that by the end of the hour.”

“And I maintain that ‘the blood of the upper ruling class’ doesn’t count.” Grantaire shakes his head. “Anyway, doesn’t mean you didn’t say it.”

“Doesn’t mean I meant it.”

Grantaire scoffs. “I don’t think I’ve ever met a more sincere person in my life.”

Enjolras makes a face at that. “What does that mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean,” Grantaire responds, retrieving cereal from the cupboard. “It means that you say what you mean and you mean what you say.”

Enjolras turns this information over in his head. “You don’t.”

Grantaire laughs. “ _Ouch_ , okay.”

“You don’t, though! You just play devil’s advocate to any point. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you speak straight with anyone.”

“To be fair, doing anything 'straight’ is hardly one of my strong points.”

Enjolras snorts. “Not untrue.” A bowl is thrust into his hands, and he looks down to it in puzzlement. “What’s this?”

“Cereal, eat up.”

He continues staring at the bowl, willing it to make sense.

“It’s just that muesli mix Jehan picks up and some cashew milk.” Grantaire pulls himself up onto the counter beside him. Enjolras peers into the other man’s bowl at the chocolatey cereal within. “No accounting for bad taste.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “How you can give me hell over coffee when this is what you eat for breakfast—”

“ _First_ breakfast,” Grantaire corrects. “I’ll have you know that second and third breakfast are much more respectable.”

That’s right. “I’l suppose I’ll find out tomorrow what exactly that entails.” He’d nearly forgotten in the blur of Grantaire’s exciting news and the entire weekend on the whole.

Grantaire falters a beat, swallowing a mouthful of undoubtedly underchewed cereal. “About that, actually. I start work tomorrow, and I’m not really sure I’ll be able to really run my normal course. I mean, the transit’s slightly less walkable, and the dress code isn’t really ‘t-shirt and jeans’ anymore…”

Enjolras pushes down disappointment and the lump that rises in his throat. “No, of course, that makes sense. Very responsible.”

The man snorts, shaking his head. “‘Responsible.’ Only you.”

He shrugs. “It’s true.”

“Sincere,” Grantaire observes, jabbing his spoon into the air.

He’s hoping that the absolute turmoil within him isn’t showing. His mind has been elsewhere, certainly, but something about their plans had attached itself to an extremely sensitive nerve, something core and central to his relationship as it stands with Grantaire. For the plans to be so easily brushed aside at the last moment…

He doesn’t know. Enjolras really has been neglecting this discussion with himself over what this all is and what it means to him, and he’s paying dearly for it.

He forces a smile, digging into the cereal. He’s never had it before, and he doesn’t think he’d choose to have it again, but for now is giving him something to do besides spending his twentieth consecutive hour awake trying to unravel his psyche.

“We could…” Grantaire starts after rinsing his dishes and depositing them in the dishwasher. “We could do it today? I mean, I’m going to have some pit stops to make that I normally wouldn’t, and honestly you look like you’re about to fall over where you sit, but…”

Enjolras shakes his head. The man isn’t wrong: between the lack of sleep, the whole of the rally, and the night out that followed, he is absolutely exhausted. In any case, it’s not as though there won’t be other mornings. “You’ll be dragging my dead weight around before sunrise. We’ll just try again some other time.”

Grantaire’s smile tightens. “Yeah, of course. Some other time.” The man’s eyes shift to the left of Enjolras where the stove sits. “I should really be going, then.”

Enjolras fights to swallow an extremely dry mouthful of cereal that seems to have lodged itself in his throat. “Have a nice day.”

Grantaire hesitates in the double-doors, not looking at Enjolras right away. “Sweet dreams, Enjolras.”

 

—-

 

It’s 4:34, and Grantaire hasn’t shown up yet. 

Really, Enjolras doesn’t even have a reason to be there anymore, and he feels silly reading an eBook from his laptop when his perfectly good eReader is laying on his bed, but this isn’t about why he’s there, it’s why Grantaire _isn’t_.

Is that what yesterday was about? That he’s changed his mind about being friends with Enjolras? He still offered to make coffee, and when Enjolras said he was hungry Grantaire had made the cereal, but maybe those were actually symptoms of this bigger invisible problem.

Enjolras wishes Grantaire would mean anything he says to him. There’s so much to read between the lines, so much that Enjolras feels like he’s constantly missing with the man. Had he even wanted to reschedule, or was it a token effort he’d hoped Enjolras would rebuff? 

What would have happened if Enjolras had agreed?

All of this compounds horribly with the feelings he still hasn’t sorted through, a mismanaged game of Tetris that he knows he’s rapidly losing. He’d planned to Sunday when he woke up, but every thought relating to Grantaire made his stomach twist and writhe, and combined with the residual elements of a hangover that has mostly passed him by he knew better than to push his luck.

His brain screams nevertheless, his stomach feels hollow, and his throat feels like an invisible force is strangling him. The instant coffee he’d managed earlier burns its course through his body, and the metallic taste clings to his tongue in biting satire of what he’s missing.

He slams his laptop shut and stands. It’s nearly 5, and there’s no reason for either of them to keep up this charade any longer.

He hopes Grantaire has a shit day.

 

—-

 

According to Courfeyrac, the only way Grantaire had managed his early mornings and late nights before was a heavy dependency on afternoon naps he can no longer take.

According to Jehan, everything’s going to be okay, there’s nothing to worry about.

According to Éponine, he’s an idiot.

It is a rare day that Marius’s feedback is the most helpful he receives, but even a broken clock is right twice a day.

_You like Grantaire._

The diagnosis had seemed unlikely with even the most generous of givings, yet it’s the only one that seems to tick all of the boxes.

(Joly’s rundown of the DSM-V, while efficient, wasn’t ultimately very helpful.)

_Well yes, of course, he’s a dear friend._

But he’s known for a while that it goes beyond that. He knew when half an hour a day never felt like enough. He knew when his whole day began to turn based on if he could make Grantaire laugh. He knew when cancelled and rescheduled plans never hurt this much with anyone else.

_Enjolras, let me ask you this: what do you like about Grantaire?_

His intelligence. His odd, brash confidence. His loyalty to his friends. His tenacity and determination. His incredible ability to set his mind to something and make it happen.

His smile. His laugh. His habit of absolutely destroying any progress he’s made in making his hair look more presentable by almost immediately shaking it out. His way of rubbing the back of his neck when he gets embarrassed.

His stupid obsession with coffee despite his terrible taste in cereal. His hugs and gentle, affectionate touches. His loud exuberance. His quiet contemplation. His ability to turn any talking point into an argument and get under Enjolras’s skin in just the right way and

_Oh._

_I like Grantaire._

He brought his eReader today because he’s not waiting for Grantaire, _he’s not_ , and this is surmountable. Crushes happen; they form and dissolve effortlessly every single day, sometimes without even realizing that they ever existed. Enjolras doesn’t have to do anything but wait for this to pass.

Instant coffee, unfortunately, has not improved at all in flavor since yesterday. He’ll have to bother Grantaire about how he prepared Enjolras’s coffee—but on second thought, perhaps that’s not the correct course of action to take here. Total avoidance isn’t possible, but intentionally increasing proximity doesn’t seem like a good idea either. 

He hopes Grantaire has a mediocre day.

 

—-

 

The meeting was fine. Really, it was. Feuilly came back with statistics on attendance and petitions and general feedback, and they’re already shifting their tactics for their next move to accommodate to it. Joly finally invited some of his other friends from work in light of the elevator being a viable option for getting to the meeting room. A major player in the disabilities rights movement reached out to the club and is interested in partnering up for a future event.

It’s also the first time Enjolras has seen Grantaire since Sunday morning.

They’ve never talked in meetings much, not since Grantaire cut back his—well, since he returned from Brasil. There was no reason to expect anything different, and on that point the man had certainly delivered. Since Enjolras’s realization, though, everything feels different: the lingering nod when Grantaire enters, the way his attention seems to be on nearly anything except Enjolras when the latter speaks, his pointed refusal to volunteer any opinions during open discussion. Every minute action has one thousand different dynamics and interpretations, and suddenly Marius seems less like a broken clock and more like analog when Enjolras has only ever read digital.

He told himself he wasn’t staying late for Grantaire, even long after it was already clear that he was. If there had ever been anything between them, any chance, Enjolras needs some sign. 

There is no sign. Grantaire does everything exactly the way he always has.

Enjolras hopes he has a moderately inconvenient day.

 

—-

 

Courfeyrac says Enjolras should make the first move. He says one of them needs to take a leap of faith, and Enjolras wants to argue the point, but when he thinks about it it’s true: Grantaire apologizing for ‘being a shithead’ (he wasn’t, and Enjolras needs to tell him as much); Grantaire going to Brasil and resetting his life, and Grantaire telling Enjolras about it; Grantaire making him coffee; Grantaire inviting him out on his morning errands; Grantaire looking after Enjolras’s physical and mental wellbeing.

It’s always been Grantaire.

Enjolras takes a deep breath. He’s brought his laptop downstairs with him again today, and he opens it now, bringing up his email.

He hopes Grantaire's day could have been better, but could have been worse.

 

—-

 

He holds his breath as his eyes fall on the subject line. He might be too late, and if he is he has no idea how he'll proceed from here.

He hopes Grantaire has an okay day.

 

—-

 

(Grantaire doesn’t come down Saturday or Sunday morning.)

(Enjolras hopes he has a nice day.)

 

—-

 

Apparently, these days Grantaire comes downstairs at 6. He wears a crisp button-down with a tie, trousers with a pleat, and carries a jacket over his arm. He still has the same black backpack over his shoulder.

And he doesn’t expect Enjolras to be in the kitchen.

“ _Caralho!_ ” he swears, startling enough that he nearly drops the jacket. “Enjolras, Gods, what’re you doing here?”

It’s not the reaction he was hoping for, but he supposes that this is what a leap of faith is all about. “Classes,” he says simply. His voice sounds shaky to him, and he takes a deep breath to try again. “It would seem that I’m back on ‘the bitch time slot.'”

Grantaire makes a face, sliding his backpack onto a seat and the jacket over top of the chair. “Did you do something to piss someone off?”

Enjolras looks down at the table, chuckling dryly. “Not quite.” He looks back up at Grantaire. He’s rehearsed this in his head a thousand times since Thursday, and he hopes he can deliver it right. “I accepted the full-time position.”

The man’s eyes widen. “E-Enjolras, that’s great! But...I thought you’d said—”

“Right. I did. You’ve said that I say what I mean and mean what I say, and I certainly meant every word of what I told you. But I also want you to listen to me now and hear what I’m saying.”

He swallows and tells himself it’s just another speech. “I like you. I like you a lot. I couldn’t tell you how, or when, or from where, but I do, without complexities or pride.”

“Wait a second, are you quoting—”

“I am _trying_ to give an extremely serious speech here, if you can possibly hold your commentary an entire minute?” His nerves are getting the better of him, and he hears it manifesting itself as irritation. 

“Sorry," Grantaire grins, not appearing even slightly sorry, "all self-control pertaining to inappropriate commentary and interruptions goes toward this weekly meeting I go to. Tuesday nights? You might know it.”

“Grantaire,” he huffs, corners corners of his mouth raising in spite of himself.

“No no, seriously, they’re into this whole, like, ‘betterment of humanity’ thing, which is cool but totally destined to fail before they even begin, right? Like, talk about Sisyphean tasks—”

“Honest to God Gran—”

“Hear me out, though! So despite the fact that making humanity better was Heracles’s thirteenth task that the gods just gave him a pass on, the guy who leads it actually seems to manage? Now this, of course, is his back-up job after he couldn’t cut it in show business—you know, saving the world, as you do. But also—”

“Are you coming to a point sometime before my first class begins?”

“—he has to be the _biggest fucking dweeb_ I have ever met, because _apparently_ , upon deciding that he is infatuated with someone, his first instinct is to _take on a full-time professorship that he swore he’d never bother with_ due to the fact that, and I quote, _the university’s president is a dick,_ unquote—”

“That was not the only reason—” He's teetering on laughter now, and Enjolras isn't sure why he ever thought that he'd be able to get through a a full speech with Grantaire in the picture.

“—rather than doing what a _normal fucking human being_ would do and simply _asking them on a date._ Honestly, Enjolras, you have my fucking _phone num_ —”

Enjolras has clamped a hand over Grantaire’s mouth, ignoring the continued muffled outrage. He knows that the man is strong enough to break out of the hold if he wants. “Grantaire. Would you accompany me, this-coming Saturday, to first breakfast? Potentially followed by second breakfast, and if I might be so bold to suggest it, third?” He feels a damp wetness hit his hand and withdraws it immediately. “Did you just _lick_ me??”

“We never established nonverbal safewords,” the man winks, and Enjolras feels himself flush. “But I do think I might be persuaded to go on such a venture. This-coming Saturday?”

“If it works for you.”

“I might be able to clear my 4AM-hour.” Grantaire’s eyes twinkle, and Enjolras feels joy threatening to burst through his chest.

“Just to verify: this is a date.”

“I’d be disappointed if it weren’t.”

“And you...also have feelings for me? Of the romantic variety?”

Grantaire gives him a look that falls between pity and amusement. “Did your entire romantic education come from Marius and Jehan?”

Yes. “No.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Enjolras shrugs. “Too late for that, you already agreed to the date.” Saying the words makes him begin grinning like an idiot all over again. 

He hears footsteps on the stairs and is reminded that other people keep to daylight hours too. Grantaire seems to have the same idea as him, collecting his things with one hand and Enjolras’s hand with the other to pull him to the front door. His heart races as they exit the dark house and enter the dim light of day hand-in-hand; something about it, about them, suddenly feels real with the act, like they’ve finally broken out of the vacuum that had only existed in their kitchen in the secret hours of the morning.

When they reach the sidewalk, they stop short.

“I go this way,” Enjolras awkwardly indicates.

“And my bus is this way,” Grantaire indicates, pointing a thumb in the opposite direction. They’re still connected at their hands, and Enjolras isn’t ready to let go yet. He knows this isn’t an option, but seeing the possibly equal struggle behind Grantaire’s eyes makes it a little easier.

“Have a good day,” Enjolras offers. 

Grantaire grins back. “Have a _great_ day.”

They linger for another second, and Enjolras takes the opportunity to gather his nerves, pushing himself onto tiptoe and kissing to other man’s cheek. There’s shock first, but it’s quickly followed by dazed happiness. “I’ll see you after work?” Enjolras checks, withdrawing his hand.

Grantaire nods. “Yeah,” he responds, breathless. “Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I actually had a much more detailed plan for this originally. After a month or so I was 11.6k in and just over the halfway mark...and I hated it. So, with 2 days left before my self-imposed deadline, I scrapped the entire thing and wrote this, all while fully celebrating the New Year (a very involved, multi-day festival in my country).
> 
> The poem Enjolras loosely quotes at the end is ["Sonnet XVII"](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/xvii-i-do-not-love-you/) by Pablo Neruda (because I'm basic). Basically immediately after having his feelings confirmed and figuring out that he was going to act on them, he asked himself the age-old question, _WWJPD?_ (What Would Jean Prouvaire Do?) The answer was to look up poetry about feelings to drink to figure out how to explain himself to Grantaire. It worked, so uh, look for those t-shirts and wristbands soon.
> 
> Pretty sure I owe [PieceOfCait](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieceOfCait/pseuds/PieceOfCait) my soul at this point, she did this gorgeous [fanart](https://thepiecesofcait.tumblr.com/post/184217559316/early-mornings-and-late-nights) of our boys!!
> 
> Love it? Hate it? Tell me below (pleeeeeeeease please please please, I constantly seek validation and specific feedback) OR send me hate-anon at my [tumblr](http://shitpostingfromthebarricade.tumblr.com)!!


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